


Àillte

by lotus0kid



Category: Hamish MacBeth (TV), Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, Anyelle, Bellish - Freeform, F/M, Fae & Fairies, May Day Menagerie 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-04-30 10:51:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14495325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lotus0kid/pseuds/lotus0kid
Summary: Hamish meets a Fae creature while on the moors.  Adventure quickly ensues.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ml101](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ml101/gifts).



> Man, I’ve had this fic in my head for _years_. So big thanks to the [Rumbelle May Day Menagerie 2018](https://maydaymenagerie.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr and my recipient [wierdogal](http://wierdogal.tumblr.com/) for letting me finally get it out. FYI, I used [this site](http://www.lexilogos.com/english/gaelic_scottish_dictionary.htm) for my Scottish Gaelic. Translations can be found in the author’s notes at the end of the last chapter.

They can’t run forever, these monsters.  If she just doesn’t stop, if she just doesn’t slow down, she’ll make it.  Exactly where “it” is, Àillte doesn’t know, but that’s not important as the beasts both roar and laugh and their strange shining eyes glare upon the landscape in front of her as she runs and runs.  Finally, they illuminate a small orange shape.  A tent, she thinks, though not made of hides like she’s seen.  Some kind of fabric, perhaps, but that also doesn’t matter as it opens and a man steps out and she dives past him and cowers within its shelter.

Outside, the monsters grumble and try to set the tent on fire with their burning eyes.  “Hey!” the man shouts, “What do y’ think you two’re doing?  It’s bloody well near dawn!”

The beasts mutter apologies, and Àillte peeks through the tent opening to register two youths sitting atop them, their gangly shoulders hunched and spotty faces sheepish.  She tucks herself back into the safety of the tent, layering glamour to make herself as unnoticeable as possible.

“If you’re sorry, go on home and quit causing such a racket, will ye’?” her unwitting protector grouses.  The beasts and their riders soon roar off, and Àillte dares to take a breath.  And then her protector clambers back into the tent, which is in fact very small, and flops down on a puffy tube-shaped blanket, blowing out a breath of his own.

Àillte is stone still.  It’s been such a long time since she was this close one of his kind.  Not since...  Old pain squeezes her heart.  To drag herself out of dark memories, she studies the face of her protector.  But that doesn’t help much.  He looks too similar.  A relative?  Maybe.  It’s not impossible.

His face has relaxed into a doze and he rolls over to face Àillte’s corner of the tent.  She should leave.  Definitely.  She has responsibilities.  It was madness to venture out of the forest in the first place.  She should’ve just looked to her books if she needed adventure.  Her mind is made up, and yet she still has to force herself to begin a glacial creep toward escape.

She’s about halfway there and beginning to wonder how she’ll open the tent without making a sound when a beam brighter than sunlight hits her body.


	2. Chapter 2

It took Hamish far longer than it should’ve to understand what his eyes were seeing, then grab a torch and turn it on for a better look.  But maybe that was a mistake in itself, because now his brain is yelling “deer” and “woman” at the same time and he can’t decide which reaction to have.  Wide black eyes slowly turn to him, the shadows of antlers painting strange shapes on the tent wall.  The woman- the animal- she’s too still to be either really- draws her lips away from her teeth in the strangest smile Hamish has ever seen, and then says something he doesn’t understand.

“S-sorry, what?” he stammers.

The smile fades, a look of mild frustration flashing over her face.  Then her face seems to ripple, and Hamish’s brain finally stops yelling about a deer in his tent.  It’s just a woman now, with waves of dark hair and sky blue eyes and a plain dress.  Already Hamish wonders if what he saw before was just some bizarre trick of the light.  “Thank you,” she says.

“I- thank- me?” he replies eloquently.

“For scaring off those monsters.  With the bright eyes.  I was very scared.”

“D’you mean the ATVs?”  He’s going to have a talk with Sam and Steve’s parents about letting them joyride those things at all hours.  But for now, he’s got this to deal with.

“I suppose so.  They’re very loud, aren’t they?”

“Yes, they-”  Hamish pauses, shaking his head with his eyes screwed shut, “Hang on.  Just...  Before, a second ago, you were... what?”

“A faun.”

“Huh?”

“A faun.  From the forest.  See?”  She ripples, and the eldritch combination of woman and deer returns, folding furry legs beneath her, tilting her head and flicking long soft ears.  Another ripple, and she daintily smooths out her skirt, blue eyes cautious as she asks, “Does my true form frighten you?”

“N-no, I don’t- that is, you mean no harm, I suppose.  So, ‘s all right.”

She smiles, warm and natural this time.  “I’m glad.”

“Uh, quick question.  Probably not the most important thing, but it’ll bother me... Why do you sound Australian?”

She giggles, a bright silvery sound Hamish quite enjoys.  “Well, the glamour is meant to be appealing to the beholder.”

Hamish coughs and shoves away memories of his erstwhile crush on Oliva Newton-John.  “Glamour.  I think I’ve heard of that.  That’s, uh, what fairies do, to look pretty, or normal, or...  So, you’re a fairy?”

“A faun.  Of the Fae.  I know fairies.”

Hamish brings a hand to his forehead as he blows out a breath.  “Yeah.  Okay.  I mean, am I that surprised?  People always know someone who knows someone, there’s always stories.  And, well, here you are.  Can’t argue with that.”

The faun props an elbow on her knee and sets her chin in her palm.  “Is that all the Fae are now?  Stories?”  A shadow crosses her face, “Perhaps that’s for the best.”

“You said you came from the forest?  There’s no, uh, no’ much forest round here.  Just the moors.  And the mountains.”

She fixes an even look on him.  “It’s not a forest you find on a map.”

“No, no, I guess not.  Then again you can barely find Lochdubh on a map.”

Her ears prick up at that.  “Lochdubh?  It still stands?”

Hamish lets out a disbelieving chuckle.  “You’ve been to Lochdubh.  _You_ have.”

Her look of interest dims into wistfulness.  “I have.  Long ago.  I doubt I’d recognize it now.”

Hamish shrugs, “Well, we’d surely be glad to have you back.”  He smiles as he warms to the idea, “Come back with me.”

She bites her lip and stares at him with eyes almost as wide as in her faun form.  But then she frowns.  “I- I shouldn’t.  I’ve caused enough trouble already.”

“You’ve no’ caused trouble,” Hamish counters, “It was the McNevin boys’ fault.  Let me make it up to you.  Just a day, you’ll be back in your forest in time for supper.”

Gaze on her lap, she mutters, “Time moves slower there.”

Hamish grins, “Back in time for lunch then.”

She seems to laugh at his quip despite herself, and Hamish feels his pulse thrum.  _Oh, Christ, I better watch myself here.  Aren’t there poems about how it’s a bad idea to get attached to a Fae woman?_   “Well, maybe one visit wouldn’t do any harm.”

“Grand.  And, suppose it’s about daybreak now, might as well pack up and head home.  I’ll try to make it quick, uh...”  Hamish pauses, “I’m not supposed to know your name, right?  That’s one of the rules?”

Her lips thin into a polite smile.  “You might call me...  Belle.”

He nods, “Belle.  Certainly fitting.  Uh, will I get in trouble if I say my name’s Hamish?”

The polite smile turns sly.  “I’ll keep it in confidence.”

“Thanks much.”

With that, they clamber out of the tent and Hamish sets to dismantling it along with the rest of his campsite.  This is about the last thing he expected when he set out for his weekend trip to the moors, but he finds himself happier about it every step he takes with Belle at his side.

As they enter the town proper, Hamish notices Belle gaping open-mouthed in every direction.  When she catches his glance, she marvels, “It’s huge!  Look at all these castles!”

“I guarantee no one’s said that about Lochdubh,” Hamish chuckles while part of him wonders just how long it’s been since Belle left her forest.  A century?  Three centuries?  A dozen?

They return to the station so Hamish can drop off his kit.  As he checks for messages, Belle wanders on her own.  Thankfully it seems no emergencies cropped up during his brief holiday.  Of course, TV John would’ve come to find him if they had done.  Hamish frowns- TV John probably doesn’t need to know about Belle right away.  If ever the gracious man chose to indulge in a hearty round of “I told you so,” this would be it.

They can’t avoid John forever, he’ll be in at the station to drop off Wee Jock in a few hours, but for now Hamish shrugs off the thought and goes in search of his guest.  He finds her peering into one of the cells.  She turns slightly wide eyes on him and asks, “This is the dungeon?”

Hamish coughs, “Oh, uh, no, well...  Y’see, I’m the police constable.”

Belle blinks as confusion fills her face.

“I’m the... guardsman?  I keep people safe.  Keep the town orderly.  With, uh, varying success,” he admits quietly, “It’s my job.  Do- do you have a job?”

Belle stares at him for a moment, wearing a look like she’s waiting for a translation to finish.  “I am... the keeper of forest knowledge.”

Hamish’s eyebrows jump.  “Oh aye?  Sounds important, that.”

She ducks her head with an awkward smile.  “Not really.  I just look after the old tomes.  Keep them organized and accounted for.  Try to keep the dust off.”

“So, you’re a librarian.”

She pauses, then nods.  “Yes.”

A faun.  Who’s a librarian.  And just like that, Hamish’s day enters a new realm of oddity.


	3. Chapter 3

Àillte hardly recognizes the world around her.  Lochdubh has become so much bigger, so much taller, so much _faster_.  It seems almost everywhere she looks there are people going down this road and up that one, the village has grown a whole network of them.  And there are huge beasts like the ATVs- motor vehicles, Hamish calls them.  He promises they won’t hurt her as long as she keeps her distance.  The once quiet loch now seems to buzz with boats, big and small.  Àillte doubts there’s enough fish to satisfy them all.  These boats have engines, like the motor vehicles, and it’s not very long before Àillte can barely hear herself think over their clamor.

She finds herself grasping Hamish’s arm and cringing against his side as the endless roar presses on her eardrums.

“What’s the matter, Belle?” he asks.

“It’s too loud,” she nearly whimpers.

“Okay.  Okay, no problem.  Come on...”

People are starting to stare.  Àillte feels her glamour turning hard and thick as dragon hide.  She almost can’t breathe under it as Hamish guides her back to the quiet of his moated keep.  Once inside they come across a tall man, older though his back is straight and his eyes are clear.  Very clear- Àillte feels them peering straight through her once they get within a few steps.

“Hiya, John,” Hamish greets him, “Meet Belle.  She’s a, uh, backpacker.  Found her out on the moors.  Thought she’d like to rejoin civilization for a bit.  Or as close as Lochdubh gets, eh?”

The glamour shifts to fit Hamish’s description, her dress melting into sturdy boots and trousers and a jacket of a similar material as his tent.  It happens in less than a second, normally fast enough to fool a mortal brain, but Àillte holds her breath until John blinks and says, “How nice.  Welcome to Lochdubh, Miss Belle.  Will you be staying long?”

“No, just a brief visit,” she mutters, “I’ll depart soon.”

He nods before a small white shape darts down the hall with a flurry of excited barks.  Hamish beams and scoops the dog up into his arms.  “Hey, did you have fun at the caravan?  Belle, this is Wee Jock.  Say hi, Jock.”

Àillte holds up a cautious hand that the dog sniffs thoroughly before giving a few licks.  Àillte smiles, and glances over to find John smiling as well.  She can’t fathom what his experience with the Fae might be, but at least he’s wise enough to know an evil entity couldn’t fool a dog’s pure soul.

Hamish tucks Jock under his arm and says to John, “So anyway, thought I’d show Belle the sights for the rest of the day.  Maybe we’ll see you at the Stag tonight, before she goes.  Sound good?”

“Oh fine, Hamish.  I’ll be sure to let you know if anything comes up in the meantime.”

“Thanks.  Let’s go then, Belle.”

“Well met, Master John,” Àillte says before turning to follow Hamish.

“Well met, Miss Belle,” John calls after her, “May the wind bear you where the sun sails and the moon walks.”

Outside, she whispers to Hamish, “He knows.”

“Yeah.”

They walk over to Hamish’s motor vehicle, this one boxy and white where it isn’t streaked with mud.  Àillte forces herself to open the door Hamish leads her to and climb into the seat within.

“It shouldn’t be too noisy from the inside,” he says, then passes Jock over to Àillte, “You just hold on to Jocky boy.  That always makes me feel better.”

Àillte can’t stop a smile as she looks into the dog’s bright black eyes, though she flinches as the motor vehicle roars to life and starts moving.  She wraps her arms around Jock and squeezes her eyes shut.

“You okay, Belle?”

“Is our journey very long?”

“Nah, no’ long.  There’s just a place I think you’d like to see.  Hang in there.”

When the greasy smoke smell of the motor vehicle’s engine threatens to turn Àillte’s stomach, they finally arrive.  She scrambles to freedom, and sees they’ve come to what she can just about identify as a farm.  Sheep bleat from the surrounding fields and Hamish walks down a path but veers away from the house at the end and toward a large shed.

“Lachlan!” he calls while Jock dances around his feet, “You in?”

There are some metallic clanks and scuffling within the shed and a voice replies, “Is that you, Hamish?”

“Aye, just wanted to see if the blackhouse could stand a visitor.”

Àillte wanders past the shed as a new scent catches at her nose, something so very familiar it entices her to follow it while a stout, bearded man bustles out of the shed and over to Hamish.  Her heart thuds in her chest as she ventures on and sees a low building made of gray stone and thatched with what her nose tells her is cereal straw and reeds.  It’s a house.  Just a house.  It can’t be _his_ house.  And yet Àillte pads to the narrow doorway, takes a few steadying breaths, and turns around.

There the mountains stand.  Every peak and valley, just as she remembers.  Her throat clenches with a sob.  She whips around to gaze at the house’s interior where there are ghosts of a cheery fire in the center, a sheep pen to the right, two sleeping mats draped with two wool blankets on the left.  She blinks, and the ghosts dissolve just in time for Hamish to appear at her side.

“Hey, so, what do you think?” he says with a grin.

“I- I think-”  Her throat closes again and tears swarm her eyes.  She claps a hand over her face and wraps an arm around her middle.

“Oh, hey now, what’s the matter?” Hamish murmurs, hands lighting on her shoulders.

“Nothing,” she gasps, desperately trying to control herself.

“Hunh, never seen the blackhouse bring someone to tears before,” the man, Lachlan, remarks and Àillte must swallow demands for answers he doesn’t have to questions he wouldn’t understand.

“It’s very nice,” she whispers instead, swiping at her eyes, “You’ll keep it in good condition, yes?”

“Well, uh...”  He exchanges a glance with Hamish, and coughs, “Of course!  The blackhouse is a cultural treasure, is it not?  Wouldn’t dream of... of knocking it down.  Not even for a new septic tank.”

Hamish huffs out a breath.  “C’mon, Belle, let’s take a walk, eh?”

He likely wants to drive back to the station, but is kind enough to grant her a short reprieve from the motor vehicle.  They head away from Lachlan’s farm.  When Àillte is certain they can’t be seen, she drops her glamour with a sigh of relief, turning her true face to the sun.  She’s not had to hide it so long since...  Since that blackhouse over the hill was inhabited.

“Look, I’m sorry,” Hamish says, sounding miserable, “I thought you might like to see something from the good old days.  But, I suppose the old days weren’t so good.”  He reaches out to bring his fingertips to her arm.  “What happened?”

Àillte’s guts churn with equal needs to speak and keep silent.  Eventually, forcing words in his tongue through her faun mouth, she says, “There was a man.  A mortal.  He’s gone now.  I lost him.  Not much more to tell.”

There is so much more.  A whole broken heart’s worth, but she’s tired.  Overwrought.  She needs...  She needs to eat.  Eating is mostly optional in the forest, but out here the usual magic can’t sustain her.  She calls up the glamour again, hides behind its pretty mask.

“Please, Hamish, can we find some food?”

His eyebrows fly up and he exclaims, “Of course, yes, it’s been hours, hasn’t it?  You must be starving.  I must be.  Can’t imagine what I...  Anyway, yes, if you’d like, let’s go.”

She might’ve hoped they could harvest something from these fields, but Hamish seems certain the motor vehicle must be involved, clicking his tongue and calling for Wee Jock as they head back toward Lachlan’s farm.  In her seat once more, Àillte buries her face in warm white fur to avoid staring in the direction of Òrail’s blackhouse.


	4. Chapter 4

Hamish does his best to keep his eyes on the road, and not darting over to Belle as he drives them back to the station.  Worry and guilt gnaw at him, made all the worse since he doesn’t know exactly what he’s worried and guilty for.  Belle’s last visit to Lochdubh ended poorly, that’s obvious.  So poorly she won’t even speak of it in detail.  She lost someone she cared for deeply, perhaps even loved.  A mortal man.

Quite aside from the personal tragedy she’s dwelling on, he probably should’ve realized how jarring the changes to the village would be for her.  It’s been at least a century since the majority of people lived in blackhouses.  To go from that to paved roads teeming with cars and lorries, motorboats out on the loch and electrical wires crisscrossing overhead- who wouldn’t be staggered?  And yet Hamish can’t help hoping Belle will stay just a little while longer.

Back at the station, he microwaves two bowls of chicken soup.  Belle spoons some into her mouth, and her lips immediately press into a grimace she tries to twist into a smile that’s mostly a wince.

“How is it?” Hamish inquires with perfect innocence.

Belle gulps her mouthful and says, “Fine.  Very fine.”

“Really?”

“It’s salty!” she exclaims, opening her mouth to expose her abused tongue to the air and emitting a short gagging sound.

A laugh breaks free from Hamish as he picks up her bowl and takes it to the sink to drain some broth and add water.  “There, that should be better,” he says as he sets it before her again.

Belle’s relief is palpable after her second bite just before it turns to guilt.  “I’m sorry.  I didn’t realize just how different your world would be.  How much has changed.”

“Hey, how could you?” Hamish replies with a shrug, then forces himself to ask, “Do you, uh, want to go back?  It’s okay if you do.”

Belle’s gaze drops to her bowl as she considers, emotions flitting across her face too fast for Hamish to read them.  “No.  I- I’d like to see out the day.  It’s good to experience new things, isn’t it?  Hardly anything changes in the forest.”

Yesterday Hamish might have said the same for Lochdubh.  Perhaps he was due a dose of perspective.

He and Belle and Wee Jock leave the station again, this time avoiding the village center and traveling along the shore of the loch.  From this distance, Hamish imagines Belle can better appreciate the fishing boats cruising over the water.  She splashes through the shallow surf with Jock and shows Hamish how she fishes- crouched a few inches above the surface and humming a strange sweet tune that brings the fish swimming right up to her hooves.  It doesn’t seem terribly sporting to Hamish, but he still gives it a try himself, which has Belle doubling over with laughter.

The sun has started to sink by the time they make their way back toward the village.

“You fancy stopping in at the Stag?” he asks Belle, hooking a thumb at the white-washed building.

She looks at it, eyes focused on the painted words “The Stag Bar” wreathed by antlers not very dissimilar from the ones beneath her glamour.  “You know, an enormous stag once bolted straight into Lochdubh on a market day.  It was mad from some disease, and it thrashed about in a total frenzy before leaping into the water, where it drowned.”

Hamish blinks.  “Really?”

Belle’s gaze slides over to him.  “No.”

He snorts and slings an arm over her shoulders and heads for the pub.  “Come on, let’s have a drink, you wee pixie.”

“Faun, not pixie.  I know pixies.”

As they enter, Hamish notices a car parked outside.  A big black Cadillac.  Once inside, he’s distracted by Agnes’ warm greeting, “Hello there, Hamish!  And who’s your pretty friend?”

He and Belle settle on two bar stools as he says, “Hiya, Agnes.  This is Belle, she’s just traveling through.  Backpacker, from Australia.”

“Lovely,” Agnes beams, “What’ll you have?”

“A pint for me and- what do you think, Belle?”

She bites her lip and hums in thought for a moment.  “Do you have heather beer?”

Agnes’ eyebrows jump and she exchanges a glance with Hamish.  “Do I?  Do I now...?  Perhaps we have some left over from Lochdubh Day.  I’ll check.  Back in a tick.”

“Oh, it’s been so long since I had a good heather beer,” Belle sighs with a hunch and drop of her shoulders.

“I hope Agnes finds it for you then.  Me, I get a terrible headache from the stuff.”

“Poor thing,” Belle coos, rubbing a palm over his back.

As they exchange smiles, and heat radiates through Hamish from where Belle’s hand rests between his shoulder blades, Agnes reemerges from the back holding a dark bottle.  “Looks like we had a drop or two after all.  Lucky thing.”  She places the bottle in front of Belle and pulls Hamish a pint.  Then she sets an elbow on the bar and studies Belle with interest.  “So you’re all the way out from Australia, eh?  What a fascinating country.  What’s it like there?”

Belle coughs on her sip of beer and shoots a look of panic at Hamish.

“Hot, I bet,” he interjects, wracking his brain for any knowledge remotely related to the Land Down Under, “And, ah, filled with curious creatures.  Like those kangaroos and all.”

“Mmhm,” Belle replies with a tight, bright smile, “Heaps of those.  And so hot, yes.  The sun is simply burning.  All the time.”

Thankfully, Agnes is distracted from Belle and Hamish’s meager improvisation by the arrival of Lachlan and Lachy Jr.  However, it’s not long before the elder McCrae recognizes Belle and trundles over.

“You’re from Australia?” he soon asks, “What are you weeping over blackhouses for then?”

This is how Belle gains a Scottish ancestor wrongfully accused of a crime and exiled to the Australian colony.  By this time Doc Brown has arrived, and it’s not long before Belle was once a ticket-taker at the Sydney Opera House and grew up with a beloved pet koala bear.  Hamish is wondering how anyone could believe Belle actually surfed to school when Rory comes in bearing a violin and leading the rest of the Rory Campbell Quartet.

“Ah, hello, boys,” Agnes calls, “Come set up and let’s have a tune.”

Behind his accordion, TV John smiles, “Very kind of you to offer the practice space, Agnes.”

For Hamish and Belle’s part, they all but sag in relief as their interrogators turn to the band.  She leans toward him to whisper, “I’ve never spoken about myself so much, and have not a word be true.”

“Sorry.  I didn’t think everyone would be so interested in Australia.  Or so ignorant about it.  Do you want to go?”

“No.  I’d like to hear the music.”

The Rory Campbell Quartet aren’t short on talent for a hometown band, but Hamish reckons they sound even better than usual with Belle sitting up on her stool, eyes bright and hands patting her lap to the rhythm of their songs.  It’s traditional stuff tonight, no Beatles or Elvis covers.  A new tune starts, and Belle jolts in her seat.  Her shining eyes catch Hamish’s for a second, then she’s up and dancing.  Hamish can only watch in shock as she grabs the hands of Esme, who slipped in to not so discreetly ogle Rory, and spins into a reel.

It seems not a moment later that anyone who isn’t holding an instrument is dancing as well, aside from Hamish on his stool and Agnes behind the bar, and the doc entertaining Wee Jock.  Old dances too, not like what he’s has seen from even the most senior villagers during a céilidh.  He wonders when anyone had time to learn them, or if they’re going to ask why an Australian backpacker can dance like a Highlands shepherdess.  Hopefully they’ll be as enthralled by Belle’s vivid beauty as Hamish is, though he thinks he might spot the flick of a long ear, or the shine of light on antlers, or hear the tap of a delicate hoof on the floor as she twirls and laughs.

He turns away before he does something very silly like leap out and join her, taking a sip of his pint and noticing how Agnes keeps casting anxious glances upwards even as she smiles.  “Something wrong, Agnes?”

“No,” she replies quietly, “It’s just- we’ve a guest at the hotel, came in today.  He didn’t seem the sort to appreciate a party going on beneath his feet.  Surprised he’s not already lodged a complaint.”

“Something to do with that Caddy outside?”

“Aye.  He’s a bit of a strange one, Hamish, I think.”  Worry clouds her face, but she quickly clears it with a brisk shake of her head. “Anyway, he only paid for a night’s stay, so he’ll not be lingering about.”

“Okay, but you’ll let me know if you want me to have a word with him, eh?  What’s his name?”

“Gold.  That’s the only name he gave.”

Hamish sniffs.  Sounds like maybe a Glasgow gangster lying low in the countryside.  He doesn’t like that one bit, but as long as the man keeps out of trouble, there isn’t much he can do.  Best not to cause a stir.

The latest song ends, and Belle drops back against the bar, treating Hamish to a glowing grin.  “What wonderful music!”

“Glad you think so.  Are you taking a break, or are you tired out?”

She hums, “Might be best to leave on a high note.  Can we go back to your home?”

“Sure,” Hamish replies, studiously ignoring Agnes’ raised brow as he climbs off his stool and sets an arm around Belle’s shoulders.  Wee Jock hops from where he’s settled on the doc’s lap and follows them out to numerous calls of farewell.  Outside they find the clouds have burst into a steady rain.  Hamish pulls Belle close to his side and they laugh as they run between raindrops.


	5. Chapter 5

Once inside Hamish’s keep, Àillte drops her glamour and gives herself a full-body shake, sprinkling the area around her with water.  Hamish lets out a small cry, shielding his face from the spray, and Àillte apologizes a second before Wee Jock shakes himself, dousing both her and Hamish all over again.

When they can stop laughing, Àillte says, “You should take off those clothes.”

Hamish swallows and his cheeks darken.  “Oh, uh, yeah, I suppose so.”

Àillte gathers her hair to ring it out and Hamish’s gaze drops to her breasts before jumping to somewhere far down the hallway.

“I’ll, uh, I’ll just- yeah.”  He marches off and Àillte holds in a fresh round of giggles.  Mortals are so funny with their intricate notions of who wears what clothes and when.  Àillte really only finds them necessary when she wants pockets.

However, being soaked in rainwater makes her more than happy to bundle up in the towel Hamish brings her.  He scrubs his hands over her arms and back, building even more warmth than what she feels by being this close to him, looking up into his eyes.

“Your people love you,” she remarks.  She’s seen it every time they’ve met a Lochdubh resident.

Hamish grins and cocks his head.  “Och, as much as they can love the man who sticks his nose in their business, tries to keep them from getting into more trouble than they can handle.”

He uses a small towel to wipe the streaming water from her antlers.  When he’s done, Àillte takes it and runs it over his head, lingering at his smooth cheek.  Before she can overthink it, she cranes up on her hooves to press her lips to his.

His breath huffs out over her cheek, but soon enough he relaxes and he tilts his head to return the kiss and loops his arms more firmly around her.  And Àillte tries to let out a happy hum, she wants to very much, but something in his warmth or the scent of rain or the music still echoing in her ears drags her away from the present, and thrusts forward memories of what she had and lost.  Her throat tightens, and her next breath snags on a sob.

To her dismay, Hamish breaks the kiss and leans back.  “Hey, what’s wrong?  Did- did I-?”

“Nothing’s wrong, nothing,” Àillte insists, tilting up her head, seeking his lips even as she sniffles, “Kiss me again.”

But Hamish stays out of reach, “Hang on.  Now, I have a policy on not kissing crying people, okay?  Just tell me what’s the matter.”

Àillte grimaces and shifts on her hooves, looking at anything that isn’t Hamish’s concerned face.

“It’s to do with the man you lost, isn’t it?  Who was he?  I think you’ll feel better if you talk about it.  Come on,” he steps back and moves his hands to squeeze her upper arms, “I’ll change and we’ll have tea and...  And you can tell me your story.  What do you say?”

Àillte swallows and pulls the towel tight around herself, but murmurs, “Okay.”

She sits in his kitchen and watches the thing that heats water with no fire while Hamish gets out of his wet clothes.  She could be helping him with that right now, if she wasn’t such a sore-hearted ninny.  She sighs and attempts to organize the painful mess of her memories.  A story.  He wants her story.  So she’ll tell it like one.

Too soon Hamish emerges from his chambers, pours two cups, and settles at the table with her, gesturing with one hand for her confession to begin.

Eyes fixed on the warm amber brown of the tea, Àillte begins, “Our worlds weren’t always so far apart.  You understood us better then.  And we were more comfortable around you.   It was a Samhain night that I met Òrail.  He was a spinner and a weaver.  A good man.  A wonderful father to his son, Baelfire.  We were fast friends, like you and I.  Of course, I would have to go back to the forest often, see to my duties.  And time would pass here, fly by fast as a sparrow.  I saw Òrail and Baelfire grow thinner, and more afraid.  War was coming.  Òrail had a bad leg, he couldn’t fight.  So the army wanted to take Baelfire instead.”  Àillte turns a sharp look on Hamish, “He was just a boy!”

“I see,” he says.

“I wanted to help them.  I had to.  I loved them.  I ransacked the tomes of knowledge, trying to find magic that could help.  Glamours work best in this world, but only the Fae can use them.  Òrail and Bae needed real protection.  I searched, but there are so many books, and everything I found seemed to ask too high a price.  I returned to Òrail, and...”  Her throat tightens again, but she forces the words out, “Bae was gone.  Taken.  And Òrail was...  He was becoming dust, right before my eyes.  So I took him with me.  Into the forest.  We searched together and I gave him as many spells as I could copy out, as many as I thought could possibly help.  But then, when I was checking the high shelves, he just... left.  And I never saw him again.  And then, later...”  Àillte takes a breath as darkness closes over her heart, “I realized he’d stolen a book.  A dark book, one of the darkest in the library, something that _never_ should’ve left the forest.”

“Why would he...?”

“I don’t know!” Àillte wails, “I don’t know why he did it, or what he did _with_ it, or _anything_ of what happened to him.  Sometimes I think...  Sometimes I wonder if that was always his plan.  If all he wanted was the Fae’s dark power.”

“I- I don’t think so.  You said he was a good man.”

“You mortals are excellent liars,” she growls, then schools her face into a stoic mask, “No.  The dark books are enchanted, if they leave the forest, they should burn to ash at the first touch of sunlight.  That’s what _should_ happen.  And Òrail is... Òrail is long dead, he must be.  He went away and lived his life, and I just... I didn’t mean as much to him as I thought I did.  That’s all.”

“It’s no wonder you stayed in your forest so long, after all that.”

Àillte digs up a smile and lays a hand on Hamish’s forearm.  “I’m not unhappy to be here.  I’m not sorry I met you.”

He smiles as well, and covers her hand with his.  “Likewise.”

“That said,” she continues, smile dimming, “I need to be getting back.  I still have my duties after all.  No matter what.”

“Okay.  Uh, do you want me to walk with you?”

What she wants is to climb into his bed, but she knows what she truly needs.  “No.  It’s all right.  I know the way.”

He does accompany her to his door.  There he cups her cheek and graces her lips with one last soft kiss.  “So long then.”

“Farewell.”

She calls up the glamour and walks into the evening that’s heavy with mist after the rain.  She fills her lungs with damp air, letting it ease the pain in her heart though it can’t be healed.  She leaves the village and walks onto the moors.  She has no idea she isn’t alone until a hand clamps onto her wrist.

She’s yanked around and gapes at a face she still recognizes, despite the centuries and despite how it’s twisted up with darkness.  “Òrail...” she breathes.

His curled lips part, but a new voice shouts, “Unhand her!”

“John, no!” Àillte cries, but can do nothing else before Òrail hefts up the cane in his free hand and swings it to bash John’s head.  John drops to a knee and Àillte flings out her own free hand, opening a gate to the forest and running through, dragging Òrail to where he can’t hurt anyone but her.


	6. Chapter 6

Hamish is still sitting at the table, staring at Belle’s mostly untouched cup of tea, when he hears the front door open.  For a second his heart leaps, but then he hears TV John call his name weakly.

He jumps to his feet and runs to find John weaving down the hall, a hand clasped to the side of his head.  “God, John, what the hell’s happened?” Hamish cries as he surges forward to wrap an arm around the man.  The way he leans for support chills Hamish’s blood.

“Hamish, it’s Miss Belle.  She- she’s in trouble.”

“Oh no, come on, come on, sit down, tell me what happened.”

He guides John to the nearest chair and goes to assemble a towel full of ice.  John sighs as he presses it to his injury.  “I left the Stag to walk the moors, make sure there weren’t any of the less savory of the Fae about.”

“The Fae.  So, you know-?”

“If I were a blind man I’d know what Miss Belle was, Hamish, can we please stay focused?”

“Yeah, so, then what?”

“So I see her, walking out, and then I see this other man.  Dark he was, to the core.  I was nearly to her, but he moved fast, too fast.  He grabbed her wrist, and when I tried to step in, I got this lump for my trouble.  Shames me to say I lost my footing for a second, but when I got up, they were gone.  Gone to the fair lands, I presume.”  He shakes his head with a stormy scowl.  “Damn it all if I’d been but a wee bit faster...”

“No, John, I- I’m glad nothing worse happened to you.  That you came to tell me.”  Hamish heaves a breath and drags a hand over his face.  “Christ, what can I do?  What...?”

John squints at him.  “Why, you go get her, Hamish.  There’s been a kidnapping, or are you still on holiday?”

“Well, John, if he’d thrown her in his car and taken her off to Inverness, that’d be one thing, but how in hell am I meant to deal with this?  You want to talk about jurisdiction...”

“The crime happened on the moors, that _is_ your jurisdiction.  Ye’ have all the authority you need, the Fae will see that.  But first,” TV John stands to his full height, swaying only slightly, “You must be prepared.”

At that point, all Hamish can do is dumbly follow TV John’s order to drive them back to the Stag and find Rory.  He is thankfully still there, making merry with Esme in a booth over two pints.

TV John stalks to him and bends down to say, “Rory, there’s a bit of a situation and Hamish is going to pay a visit to the good neighbors.”

The rosy cheer in his face drains to chalk.  “N-now?  And, he’s going to _them_ , you say?”

“Aye.  It’s an emergency.”

Esme’s eyes widen over a pinched mouth.  “We mustn’t delay then.”

The pair slide out of the booth and Hamish brings up the rear as they hurry across the street to Rory’s grocery.  Rory steps behind the counter and reaches under it, coming up with a basket of small burlap pouches sewn shut with what looks like straw.  “Here, that’s- ah, bindweed, honeysuckle, marigolds...”

“St. John’s Wort?” TV John asks, “There must be St. John’s Wort.”

“There is, there is, of course there is,” Rory insists, sounding offended as he selects a pouch and passes it to Hamish.

“And these as well,” Esme quietly offers, dipping a hand into her purse and coming up with two items- a cross made of metal Hamish assumes must be iron and a small silver bell.

“That’s grand, Esme, thanks,” TV John says as Hamish juggles them with the pouch in both hands.

Esme reaches out to gently grasp Hamish’s shoulder.  “Remember now, never tell them your name.”

“Aye,” Rory chimes in, “And don’t eat anything.”

“And never give thanks, only express appreciation,” Esme continues, “Never put yourself in the position of owing a debt.”

TV John’s hand drops on Hamish’s other shoulder, pulling Hamish to face him.  “And, above all else, be polite.”

Hamish swallows, gaze roving over his friends’ suddenly unfamiliar faces.  “Yeah, okay.”

As he and TV John leave the grocery and head to the jeep, John says, “I’m thinking a change of costume would be wise.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you should wear your dress uniform.”

Hamish stares at TV John as they climb into their seats.  It took longer to reach his weirdness limit than he thought.  “Are you mad?  I’m no’ marching into a- a fairy forest wearing shiny shoes and a clip-on tie!”

TV John merely raises an eyebrow and says, “You know right well there’s a kind of magic in a uniform.  Makes a man more than just himself.  And that’s what you want to be in there, mark my words.”

Hamish huffs out a breath as he cranks the engine and grumbles, “Y’know, someday, you’re gonna have to tell me where all this bloody arcane knowledge comes from.”

After a beat John says, “No, I don’t.”

Hamish drives them back to the station and, scowling all the while, changes his clothes, slipping the pouch, bell, and cross in his pockets.  Once his policeman’s hat is firmly perched on his head, and he’s standing at a very smart attention before TV John, the man reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small stone with a hole worn through it.

“Take this to the moors, and look through the hole.  It will show you the path you must travel to find her.  Godspeed, Hamish.”  A hint of discomfort crosses his face and he mutters, “I’ll take Wee Jock to the caravan and, ah, we’ll wait at least a month before phoning Inverness about a replacement.”

“A replace-?”

“Off you go then, not a moment to lose!”  TV John grabs his shoulders and turns him in the direction of the front door.  He’s kind enough not to push, but doesn’t let go until Hamish walks out on his own.

The day has faded to a gray haze on the western horizon, and he has to get moving if he wants to be able to see a meter in front of his face.  Feeling more like a thoroughly modern Glaswegian than he ever has, Hamish picks a direction that doesn’t lead to the loch, and starts walking.  He soon leaves the village behind, and the moors stretch out around him as the wind whips past.  He gives TV John’s stone a small toss, then holds it up to his eye.

He sees the moors.  And the mountains beyond.  He turns this way and that, and sees more of the same.  He doesn’t think John would wind him up at a time like this, but he’s truly starting to feel like classic fool.  Then he turns again and blinks, and sees trees.

Hamish jerks his head back from the stone.  Looking in the same direction, he sees only the moors.  He swallows, and peers through the hole again with his other eye squeezed shut.  Trees.  Thick, dark trees.  He turns- more trees.  He spins in a circle- all trees.  And when he brings the stone down, he still sees trees.  He’s standing in a forest.  In _the_ forest.  And now he truly can’t see a meter in front of his face, because all there is to see is twisted black bark, and leaves that seem to be every dark color but green.  There is light, but it’s so diffuse Hamish can’t tell where it’s coming from.

The forest is silent, apart from his breathing, which he struggles to keep steady.  John said the stone would show him the path to Belle, so he brings it back up to his eye.  As he stares hard, hoping perhaps for some big neon arrows to point the way, something moves in the undergrowth on his left.  He jolts and nearly drops the stone, now staring hard into utterly motionless brambles.

Another sound, directly behind him.  Hamish spins so quick he staggers.  The tiniest snicker drifts over the still air.  Now he is definitely being wound up.  Hamish glowers and tugs at his jacket, standing up straight, chin lifted.  As a constable of the law, he won’t be intimidated by some mischievous sprite.  Actually, perhaps he’s found his first witness to Belle’s abduction.  He clears his throat, and says to the Fae thing out there, “Hello, I-”

A crashing sound roars from behind him and sheer survival instinct has Hamish running through the thinnest part of the forest he can find, one hand clamped on his hat.  He runs and runs, and as adrenaline ebbs and he thinks to slow, he hears the ogre or whatever it is keeping pace with him, still hidden among the trees.  He puts on another burst of speed.  When his heart starts to hurt from pounding, he hears some kind of goblin in the trees, also skittering along just above him.  He’s doomed.  Not ten minutes in Belle’s world, and a gang of monsters will soon be picking their teeth with his bones.

Another crash rattles the bushes right in front of him, and he turns a hard left and leaps into a clearing he had no idea was there.

It’s ringed with creatures, some small and gnarled, some tall and lithe, some dark, some pale, in all shapes and sizes and colors in between.  Every single one watches him in silence.  Two creatures amble past on either side of Hamish.  They don’t come higher than his knee, and each have long pointed ears, long pointed noses, and skin the color of rotten leaves.  One gives him a nasty sneer and a wink as it goes.

The pair stop before the spot on the circle that Hamish faces.  He realizes then that there are two seats placed there formed out of thick roots.  Those seats are occupied by the most human-shaped Fae he’s seen so far.  A woman is dressed in a gown made of feathers and scraps of ivory silk, and her face is covered by a white mask.  Black hair spills in waves over her shoulders.  The seat beside her is slightly lower, and a man in brown leather sprawls on it.  He wears his own wooden mask that’s crowned with leaves covering almost his whole head

Hamish’s mischief-makers perform elegant bows to the seated couple, then wander off to their own places on the circle.  Now that he’s caught his breath and the sweat has cooled on his brow, Hamish tries once again to stand up tall and straight and authoritative.  John was right- he’s not sure how he’d manage this without the uniform.

“Good day,” he announces, “I’m the designated police constable for Lochdubh.  I’ve received report that there’s been a kidnapping on the moors, and it involves at least one of your- citizens.”

Maybe he didn’t quite stick the landing, but he feels he’s gotten his point across.  The man reaches out to take the woman’s pale, delicate hand and whisper something to her.  She lets out a breath- not quite a gasp or a sigh, just a breath.  Was she not breathing before?

“The person we know to be involved is...”  Hamish curses internally- how is he supposed to find Belle when he doesn’t know her real name?  He wracks his brain for some other identifying information.  “She’s, uh... the keeper of the tomes of knowledge.”

There is a vague stir around the circle, but little else, and Hamish wonders how many of the Fae can even understand English.  He guesses the masked woman can’t, as she lets out an irritated huff and murmurs something to her male companion.  He stands and steps forward while reaching up to pull off his mask.  Hamish blinks to find a perfectly human face underneath.

“Hi,” the man says, extending his free hand, “It’s nice to meet you, constable.”

He has an American accent, complete with golden retriever grin.  Hamish is too bewildered to do anything but shake his hand.  “Hello, uh, sir.”

“You can call me Aoileann.  Anyway, you say there’s been a kidnapping?  That’s awful.”

“Yeah.  Yes.  So, I could use...  I would appreciate assistance in following up with this inquiry.  Can you provide that, please?”

Aoileann gives a concerned frown, and walks back to lean down before the woman and murmur with her for a moment.  The woman waves a hand, and a selection of the Fae court rises and converges on her.  Aoileann steps away and wanders back over to Hamish.  “They’ll talk it over,” he says.

“Talk it over?” Hamish echoes in disbelief, “We’ve got to do something _now_.  B- the keeper could be in danger.  Don’t they understand that?”

Aoileann’s mouth opens, then cinches shut as he sighs and shrugs.

Curiosity getting the better of him, Hamish takes a step closer and says quietly, “Are you wearing a glamour?  You look human.”

Aoileann’s grin returns, accompanied by a soft laugh.  “I am human.”

“Okay.  How long have you been here?”

He blinks.  “I dunno.  A couple weeks, I think.”

“Right.  Ah, hey, what year is it?”

He blinks again, slower.  “Um...  Nineteen... eighty-three?”

Hamish tries and fails to twist his mouth into a smile.  He wonders if this man has any loved ones still waiting for him, still wondering what became of him.  He pats Aoileann’s shoulder and folds his hands behind his back.  He has got to get out of this forest.

Thankfully it’s not too long before the congress of Fae concludes and returns to their seats.  The masked woman raises a hand high above her head, and soft silvery light emanates from it as if somehow channeling the full moon.  After a moment, Hamish hears something in the forest.  Something big, and fast, and coming closer.  As he glances around in growing fear, muscles tensing to bolt, no one else in the court shows any reaction, even when a massive black wolf flies right over their heads and lands in the circle, growling and snarling with dripping jaws.

For his part, Hamish is grasping at his pocket with the desperate hope that holding up the iron cross _Dracula_ -style might do a blessed thing to slow this monster down before it tears his throat out.  But then, Aoileann comes to his side.  “Hey, Ruadh, can you put a glamour on?  You’re scaring the constable.”

The wolf lets out a growl of pure menace.  Then it ripples, and is replaced by a tall, lean woman with long dark hair.  Hamish might have seen her fine features in a magazine once, he can’t quite recall at the moment.  She wears a medieval-style dress and a red cloak.  She cocks a hip and asks, “What’s a constable?”

Aoileann nods in his direction, “This is.  He’s looking for the keeper of forest knowledge.  Can you find her?”

Ruadh squints, then stalks forward and begins sniffing around Hamish’s face, neck and chest.  He stays perfectly still, not even daring to breathe as his brain gibbers, _Be polite, be polite, be polite, be polite_...  “Yeah,” Ruadh eventually replies, “Shouldn’t be too hard.”

“I appreciate it,” Hamish manages to whisper.

Ruadh hums, then steps back as the masked woman rises from her seat and glides forward.  She pushes up her mask, revealing a pleasantly pretty face with round cheeks, a delicate chin, button nose, and green-gray eyes.  It must be a glamour- Hamish can almost recall a primary school teacher who had that face.  A smile curves her lips, and she runs a finger along his cheek and over an ear as she says something he can’t understand.

A hand suddenly meets Hamish’s chest and applies firm pressure that’s just shy of a shove.  Aoileann steps between Hamish and the woman.  “You should go now,” he says, amiability now turned to steel.

“Yeah, sure, no problem,” Hamish mutters, all but scuttling away with Ruadh sauntering along at his side.

“Ròs Bhàn, leannan...” he hears Aoileann coo.

“A dhuine mo ghaoil...” the woman, Ròs Bhàn, replies just as softly.

He glances back to find them locked in a passionate embrace.  Then he and Ruadh exit the clearing.

She leads him through a thicket of brambles and clinging twigs for a while, until they step down into what almost seems like a road.  Millennia of travelers have worn this path deep into the earth, creating curved walls of soil and roots on either side.  The tunnel is completed by a canopy of interwoven branches arching overhead.

“Keep up, constable,” Ruadh smirks at Hamish’s gaping before her gaze moves to the trees and her nostrils flare, “We’re not alone.”

“Right.”

They carry on along the road at a brisk walk, Ruadh lifting her nose to the air every now and then.  Hamish follows and does his best not to flinch at every rustle and creak in the forest.  He’d pay real money to hear a bird call.  What he hears instead is a distant cry, off to the left.  He doesn’t break stride, though he peers between tree trunks and brambles when he can.  Eventually, he notices a human figure trudging through the gloomy woods.  It’s a man, carrying a bow and arrow, draped in a furred cloak.  He wanders a few meters one way, then pauses, and chooses another direction, and sometimes casts his head back to let out a plaintive wail.  Hamish stops then, and climbs a little up the side of the road to lean off and call out to the man.

His call becomes a yelp when a hand grabs his shoulder and yanks him back.  Eyes blazing lupine yellow, Ruadh snaps, “Do your people really need to be reminded not to leave the path?  I thought they told stories about that.”

“Aye, but- there’s a man...”

The yellow fades as Ruadh rolls her eyes.  “I know.  That’s the lost huntsman.”

“Well, cannae we-”

“No, we can’t.  No one can.  A long time ago, he rejected the affections of a witch.  So she cursed him.  Now he’s lost, forever.  You could take him by the hand and walk him right back to this spot, and he’d still be lost.  In fact, if you tried you’d probably end up lost too.  It’s happened before.  So leave him.  Let’s go.”

A chill runs through Hamish as his eyes are dragged back to the lost man.  He pulls his hat lower over his brow and nails his gaze to Ruadh’s skirts up ahead.  This place is a bloody waking nightmare.

They keep walking, and Hamish slowly realizes the tree trunks he thought he was looking at are actually one trunk.  One massive trunk wider than any building he’s ever seen.  He imagines its highest branches would reach into outer space, if he actually thought it stood on planet Earth.

“This is where the forest knowledge is kept,” Ruadh says, “She was taken here.  She’s afraid.  The person with her is... strange.”

“Okay, how do we get in?”

“Normally it’s open.  Something’s sealed it shut.”

Hamish sighs, “Great.  So, what do we do then?”

Ruadh shrugs.  “Not my problem.  I was told to find the keeper.  She’s in there.  Job’s done.”  And with that, her human form ripples away and the wolf bounds off into the forest.

“Thanks a bunch!” Hamish shouts at her retreating form, then bites his tongue and prays she didn’t hear and decide he owed her something in return, like a mouthful of his guts.  Hands in his pockets, gripping the gifts of his friends, he slowly relaxes as the forest stays quiet.

He peers up at the tree, suddenly feeling mouse-sized in the face of its immensity.  Belle’s in there, with whatever bastard thought he could snatch her, and Hamish has no clue how to help.  For lack of any better ideas, he starts walking around the base of the tree, hoping for some gap to appear in the tangle of roots that’s taller than him.

Eventually he finds a pitch black space that might be big enough for him to crawl into if he turns sideways.  He’s just about to go when he’s nearly knocked flat by a person climbing out of it.

“Whoa, hey, who are you?” demands a very short man with large round ears, a large round nose, and no hair on his head except a scruffy salt-and-pepper beard.  He’s got what looks like a pick axe resting on one burly shoulder.

When he’s caught his balance, Hamish says, “I’m H- ah, I’m a police constable.  Who are you?”

The man scrunches up his mouth and squints for a moment before saying, “Call me Mùsgaire.”

“Okay.  Are you trying to get inside?”  He gestures to the tree.

“Yeah, I saw a friend go in there with someone, but- I dunno, it didn’t seem normal.  And then the whole place closed up tight.  I wanted to figure out what’s going on.”

“A friend.  You mean the keeper of forest knowledge?”

“Uh huh.”

“Right, well, she’s in trouble.  I’m trying to help her.  Can you get me inside?”

“I think so.  I’ve just about broken through.”  He hefts the pick axe and shows Hamish the blade.  “Tipped with a genuine fairy crystal.  Strong stuff.”

“Sure,” Hamish replies, as if he understands a word of that.  “So, you’ll go back in there and finish up, then I’ll go through?”

“Works for me.”

Mùsgaire turns to climb into the hole, and Hamish unthinkingly calls, “Thanks!”  An instant later he grimaces, “Shite.  Do I, ah, owe you something now?”

Mùsgaire pokes his head out.  “Nah.  I want to help my friend.”

“For free?  Why?”

A bashful look crosses his rough face.  “She gives good relationship advice.”

He turns back and continues to burrow into the roots.  For the first time since he arrived in this mad place, Hamish smiles.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for moderate violence.

Àillte feels sick.  Òrail has returned to her.  She should be overjoyed.  But this is not Òrail, her sweet spinner with the smile like sunshine.  She believes it’s his body, but something evil has taken root in him.  Something she can only guess came from the dark book he stole.  Or, did he steal it?  Has she been horribly wrong, all this time?  Only one person can tell her, and he hasn’t spoken a word yet, just towed her along through the forest, a look of black determination carved into his face.

He’s tossed the cane aside and now navigates the holloways like he was born here, which may in fact be true for the thing inside him.  It’s hardly any time at all before they come upon the library.  Soft golden light spills from the open doorways notched at the base.  Òrail stalks through with Àillte tripping after him.  The second they’re inside, the entire library shivers and creaks and the doorways slam shut.

“What-?  What did you do?!” Òrail snarls in Àillte’s face.

“It wasn’t me.  The library senses the stolen magic in you.  You’re trapped now.  We both are.”

She might have expected him to rage at that, instead his mouth stretches into a hideous grin.  “We shall see, dearie.”  Then he thrusts her away from him, nearly knocking her off her hooves, and commands, “Assemble the books of power.”

Àillte stands straight, chin lifted to declare, “No.”  She dares to inch forward to brush her fingertips over Òrail’s cheek and murmur, “Love, can you hear me?”

He smacks her hand away and roars, “Do as I say if you want to live!”

Clasping her stinging hand, blinking stinging eyes, Àillte stumbles off into the rows upon rows of curved shelves that twist and wind and stretch up high overhead.  When she’s out of sight, she begins plucking books at random- this one about a certain flower, this about a certain battle, this about a certain shape of cloud.  She’s stalling, though she’s not sure why.  It’s not as if anyone is coming.  The elders know what it means when the library seals itself- dangerous magic has gotten loose.  No one will risk coming to her rescue.  She might as well let Òrail snap her neck, rather than suffer watching the dark thing parade around in his body for centuries to come.

When she can’t carry any more useless books, she takes them back to the entrance chamber and dumps them on a table carved from the living wood.  She hasn’t even turned away before rough hands clamp on her arms once again and drag her close to Òrail’s corrupted face.

“These are no books of power!” he screeches.

“I told you no!” Àillte shouts back, “You can’t have them, you beast!”

He shoves her away and draws a hand back to slap her, but it sticks wavering in the air.

Àillte gazes at it in wonder.  “Òrail,” she breathes, “You’re still there.”

He lets out a roar of fury and spins around, pacing back and forth, muttering words Àillte can’t make out as she’s too busy listening to her heart sing.  The beast that’s taken over Òrail is strong, but not strong enough to destroy her love.  Like spring gently breaking the grip of winter, Òrail will break free from his captor.  He just needs her help.

She creeps closer to him, hands extended like she’s calming a frightened animal.  “Òrail.  Òrail, please hear me.  Please return to me, my love.  I’ve missed you so.”

Her hand is a hair from touching his shoulder when he rounds on her again, forcing her to scuttle away as he looms over her.  “I demand the books of power!  You will not hide them from me!”

“You will not have them!  I demand Òrail!  Give him back to me!”

A hand shoots out and grasps her throat.  It squeezes.  “You will aid me, or you will die.”

“Go on then,” Àillte says with the little breath she has left.  The grip doesn’t tighten.  “You can’t, can you?  My love is too strong.  Stronger than you can even imagine.”

The beast’s curled-lip snarl quivers, then fades.  His blazing eyes soften.  The hand on her throat moves to cup her cheek.

Then there’s a sound elsewhere in the library.  The blaze erupts in Òrail’s face again, smothering the man within.  Àillte cries out in grief before stumbling after him as he stalks in the noise’s direction.  It must be a book slipping off a shelf, that’s all.  She can reach Òrail again.  She knows she can.

However, at a far edge of the library they find none other than Hamish squirming up through a hole.  He spots her and smiles, “Belle!  Belle!  I’m here to help.  I’m here...”

He’s just managed to haul his legs out of the hole when Òrail grabs his shoulders, lifts him into the air, and throws him like a doll.  He falls in a heap on the floor as Òrail advances on him, soon coming to press a foot on his neck.

“NO!” Àillte screams, looking around her for anything that might possibly stop this nightmare.  All she sees are books.  She’s read every one of them, from the three-page pamphlet of a long-forgotten poet to the hundred-volume treatise on the most sublime echelons of magic.  All of that knowledge exists inside her mind.  It’s meant to be safe there, as she is its keeper.  But could she marshal it, now, to save two precious souls?

She focuses on Òrail, and calls up her knowledge.  She knows what he is.  A human being.  A complex interplay of organs and bones and muscles.  She knows him down to the twitches of electricity jumping from nerve to nerve in his brain.  The books told her.  Àillte’s hand rises, palm directed at him, and she builds his duplicate in her mind made up of the facts of him.  Then she looks deeper.  Looks for the thing within.  It’s been a very long time since she read its book, but she remembers.  She knows every part of it just as well.  She lays her other palm over the back of her raised hand, and builds its duplicate.  And then she divides them.

Òrail staggers.  Seizes.  Crumples.  With a tortured moan, the beast oozes out from his body, a slimy smear of power-hungry poison.  Àillte grabs a book off a shelf, opens it, and slams it down on the smear.  It’s dragged into the pages, tendrils clawing at the floor before it lets out one last pitiful whimper and submits to its new cage.

Àillte shuts the book.  Tucks it under an arm.  When she looks, she finds Òrail, exactly as he was the day she lost him.  He stirs, and pushes himself up on his hands.  He turns to Àillte with a shy but shining smile.  “I’m... I’m sorry, dearest.  I think I fell asleep.  I must have done.  I had a terrible nightmare.  Did you find something?”

Though she clamps her mouth shut, Àillte can’t stop her tears from flowing, can’t keep a sob from shuddering out.  Òrail looks aggrieved as he climbs off the floor, wincing as he limps to her on his bad leg and reaches to smooth his hands down her arms.  The tender touch only makes her weep more.

“Àillte, what’s happened?” he breathes into her hair, gently pressing her body to his.

She has to tell him.  She has to tell him everything, and she can only hope it doesn’t fracture his mind to hear it.  For the moment, she scrubs her eyes and sees Hamish pushed up against the wall and watching them warily.  “My love,” she whispers to Òrail, “Very much has happened.  But there’s something I must do before I tell you.  Will you wait here for me?  I won’t be long.”

“But what about Bae...?”  He pauses, and tremendous grief flickers on his face.  He nods.  “I- I will wait.”

“I will return soon,” she reiterates, rubbing her forehead against his.  She takes a steadying breath, and steps out of his arms.  She goes to Hamish and helps him to his feet.  He scoops up the hat that tumbled off when he was thrown and sets it firmly in place again.  “Let’s get you out of here,” she says with a soft smile.

His gaze darts to Òrail.  “You, uh- are you sure?  Is he...?”

Àillte nods to the book under her arm.  “The dark magic is contained.  My Òrail has returned.  It seems he never truly left.  Not willingly.”

“Right, okay,” Hamish says, scratching at the back of his neck, “Well, congratulations, and all.”

Àillte smiles.  She can only imagine the ordeal he’s experienced, charging into the forest to her rescue.  Lochdubh is lucky to be protected by a hero of such bravery.

She leaves Òrail to rest in her bed, then guides Hamish through one of the re-opened doorways of the library.  She keeps the book tucked under her arm.

“How did you get here?” she asks as they walk down the holloway.

“Uh, John gave me this.”  He reaches in a pocket to retrieve a small stone with a hole worn through it.

“Oh, good!  This will help a lot,” Àillte says, taking the stone.  Then worry punctures her cheer.  “Is John all right?  I know he was hurt trying to save me on the moors.  Òrail, he...”

“John’s got a lump, but he’ll be fine.”

“I’m glad.  It was very noble of him to try to help, when we’d only just met.”

“Well, that’s TV John McIver all over.  Never one to sit back when there’s trouble.”

Àillte hums, then slows to a stop.  In a soft voice she says, “I will return you to him.  And the rest of your people.  They need you.”

Eyes on the ground, Hamish replies, “Suppose so.”  They rise squinted with worry.  “You really will be okay?  You’re sure?”

She nods.  “I think so.  Òrail and I will heal.  I’ll teach him what books he’s not to go near.”  She smiles to herself.  “I’ve never had much company in the library.  It will be... an adventure.”

“Okay.  Y’know, you’re welcome in Lochdubh, anytime.”

She grins, “That’s a dangerous thing to tell a Fae.”

He grins back, “I’ll take my chances.”

Àillte extends her free arm to wrap around Hamish in a warm embrace, while keeping the book tightly pressed against her side.  After they part she brings the stone up to her eye while squeezing the other shut.  Peering through, she sees the blue gleam of ley lines crisscrossing the forest.  With Hamish holding on to her arm, she follows a certain line until she feels the gate between their worlds swing open.  She lowers the stone, revealing the moors outside Lochdubh washed in bright sunshine.  The book is already disintegrating, the evil within strong enough on its own to trigger the library’s defensive magic.

Àillte watches the black ash of it swirl away in the breeze.  “There.  That beast will never hurt another innocent soul again.”

“Good.”

“Farewell, Hamish.”

“Bye, Belle.”

She leans close, kisses his cheek, and gives him her true name.  Then she presses the stone into his palm and steps back through the gate, into the forest, where Òrail awaits her.


	8. Chapter 8

Hamish blinks into the sunlight, suddenly unsure of exactly what to do.  He can see Lochdubh from here- thankfully it doesn’t look like there are flying cars zipping about or robots rolling down the streets.  He adjusts his hat and tie, and strides in the direction of TV John’s caravan.

Before he even gets there, Wee Jock shoots out to meet him like a small white bullet, tail wagging furiously to match his excited yips.  “Hiya, Jock,” he murmurs, scooping the dog up for a hug.  Bloody hell but it’s good to be home.

John steps out of the caravan as Hamish nears the cold camp fire.

“Remember me, John?” he says with a grin which John gamely returns.

“Vaguely, yes.  It was Hamlet, wasn’t it?”

Hamish chuckles, “Close enough.  So how long was I off with the fairies?”

“About ten days.  And how’d it go then?”

“Fine.  It’s all... fine.”  Hamish could try to explain, but there isn’t really much point.  It’s not something human language was made to describe.

John seems to know this, unsurprisingly.  He simply gives a satisfied nod and says, “I’ll make some tea then, shall I?”

“Yeah, thanks.”  Hamish lowers himself into one of the chairs outside the caravan and sets Jock down beside him.  He takes the stone from his pocket and turns it over and over in his palm.  He thinks of the forest- that strange, dark, frightening place where Belle, or rather, Àillte lives with her true love.  He hopes they’ll be happy, after all the years of pain.  As for him, he’s still got a job to do. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Translations:
> 
> Àillte = beauty  
> Òrail = golden  
> Aoileann = charming  
> Ruadh = red  
> Ròs Bhàn = Snow White  
> Leannan = beloved  
> A dhuine mo ghaoil = my beloved man  
> Mùsgaire = grumpy


End file.
